HealingOverScars or the perfect sickfic
by wetrustno1
Summary: My attempt to unite the perfect amount of story, fluff, angst, and unspoken revelations about Sherlock and John into one story. Tags: sick sherlock
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Perfect Sickfic.

**Rating**: PG for language.

**Tags**: BBC Sherlock, Angst, Friendship/Romance, Flu, Cough, Sherlock sick

**Warnings**: No spoilers, sometime in the first season. No_ really sexual _slash, but still some romantic overtones (because that's what we all want, right?).

**Summary**: I won't lie. I have a most unhealthy addiction to BBC's Sherlock, and if I could wrap up Sherlock and John and keep them in my room, I would. I have pretty much read every Sherlock cold/flu/pneumonia fic out there, but I wanted to try my hand at making a really good one (although there are plenty of great ones out there already.) A little fluffy, a little angsty, and lots of good Sherlock whiney stubborn-ness. Please read, review, share, whatever you wish. Feedback is VERY appreciated!

*And I don't own Sherlock. Or any of the other characters. Sadly. Trust me, if I did, my life would be much better.

The weather outside was foul, but not nearly so foul at the atmosphere which was brewing inside apartment 221B. John paced back and forth in front of the hearth, reminding even himself vaguely of the apartment's other owner, a certain private detective, who was, as of the moment, approximately three hours and twenty six minutes late for a very important meeting. And as of such, Lestrade was none too pleased with either of the flats inhabitants.

Since, as per usual, Sherlock was no where to be found and had not been answering his phone, John had been left to deal with the mess of paperwork and forms alone, and was now plotting the extremely irritable rant which he was preparing to hurl upon Sherlock at the moment he walked through the door. John threw his hands up in exasperation, kicking the trash can with such force that a large dent appeared in the side. He didn't care. He was fed up with all of Sherlock's whining and complaining and ordering him around. He was finished. Finished with it all. He was considering calling Sherlock for a fourth time, and in fact went so far as to pull his phone from his pocket, when the slam of the front door and the sound of footsteps on the stairs told him that it wouldn't be necessary.

The footsteps were rather uncharacteristically slow, and John began to tap his foot irritably as he waited for his parter to open the door. Finally the knob turned, and a very out of breath, soaking wet Sherlock entered.

"Fancy seeing you here." John struggled to keep his tone steady as he eyed the dripping detective remove his coat and scarf. "I'm so glad you were able to take some time out of your _precious _day to... oh I don't know... maybe answer one of my EIGHT messages to tell me where the hell you've been all day? But no, obviously the GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES simply doesn't have time for such _trivial matters _as PAPERWORK, because he's off looking at different kinds of mold in the bloody alleyways and whatever else you do all day long!" John paused for a moment, breathing heavily, to glare at the back of Sherlock's inky black head. Sherlock dropped his coat to the floor, avoiding John's gaze as he made his way to the sofa and collapsed onto his back, staring straight at the ceiling, eyes closed.

"For the love of god, Sherlock are you going to at least say something?"

No answer.

"I sure hope you have a damn good reason for being unreachable all bloody day, because you have no idea what I've been through... "

Sherlock remained expressionless, folding his hands neatly onto his chest and huffing loudly. John felt another stab of anger overwhelm him.

"And another thing-!" John gestured to the crumpled heap of clothes by the doorway. "Is it too much to ask that you at least _pretend _to tidy up after yourself? I'm not your maid, and I'm sick and tired of cleaning this whole damn apartment every damn day, and then running around at your beck and call, driving all the way across the city, just so I can send a bloody _text mess-" _

"ESHHOO!"

John started slightly, rather taken aback by the sudden noise. Sherlock sniffed twice, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, before resuming his stubborn gaze at the ceiling, sniffling.

"Are you _sick?_" John asked incredulously, momentarily forgetting to be angry as he stared open mouthed at Sherlock's rain-soaked figure. He had never so much as heard a cough from Sherlock's mouth, let alone a sneeze or _sniffling. _

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the ceiling long enough to send a withering look at John.

"I don't get sick. Boring people get sick." His voice was it's usual lazy self, but there was something about his eyes that seemed a little too bright, a little too shiny. "And as for the whole paperwork business..." Sherlock cracked his back, twisting to both sides before laying back down facing the wall. "...I don't see how it matters. I do all the _difficult_ things around here- if you have to do the dishes or the paperwork, you might as well. It's not as though you qualify for anything else."

John stepped back slightly, Sherlock's words striking him like a slap across the face. Sherlock nestled deeper into the sofa, curling his knees into his chest before speaking:

"Oh and you'll need to go and buy some more milk tomorrow- I poured the old one down the drain. I needed to bottle for an experiment."

John felt his face burn, and resisted the urge to punch every inch of Sherlock he could reach.

"Fine." He said, voice carefully measured. "I'll do that. And while I'm out I'll be sure to look for a new _flat mate_ while I'm at it. Have fun finding someone else to put up with your childishness. I can't imagine you'll find many takers." John turned sharply, making his way upstairs toward his bedroom.

"Oh also..." He paused on the stairs. "I suggest you put on something dry. If you get sick, even though apparently you're above all that, I am _not _taking care of you, because I will be going to my _boring job_ tomorrow. And god knows there's no one else on this planet who would put up with your whiney, selfish, arrogant, self-pitying bullshit." With that John stomped upstairs, slamming his door behind him.

He began to change into his night clothes, relaxing a little as he melted into the familiar fabrics, before laying down wearily. He felt a small pang of worry as he thought of Sherlock sitting downstairs on the sofa, soaking wet and sniffling to himself. He really did look a little bit off, and John couldn't even remember the last time Sherlock had eaten or slept thoroughly. The worry vanished quickly as his cold words flashed back through John's mind, and suddenly the thought of Sherlock being alone- cold and miserable with no one to complain to, was very appealing.

_He deserves to suffer in silence, _Though John as he pulled the heavy duvet over himself, _It's about time he got what was coming to him. _John smirked to himself, shutting off the light, yet still felt remnants of the worry nagging at him at he drifted into a fitful slumber.

*sorry for the long setup. Promise it gets better! I prefer one-shots to long tedious reads, but the plot was getting rather long, so I felt it was best to break it up a little bit. R&R always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

At 7:30 the next morning John drifted downstairs, running his hands across his freshly shaven face. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, wearing the same clothes from last night and deeply absorbed with something on the laptop screen.

"Good morning." John's voice was perhaps a tad more curt than usual, but he was in a considerably better mood than last night and was mostly over the petty bickering.

Sherlock did not look up from the computer.

"Coffee?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock? Coffee?"

"Not hungry."

"You don't need to be hungry to drink coffee."

"Coffee destroys my concentration."

"You look like you could use the caffeine."

"Caffeine is for those who lack competence."

John rolled his eyes, pouring himself a cup and sitting down next to Sherlock, who was still absorbed in the laptop.

"Lestrade has a case for me."

"Just for you?"

"Well you can tag along, I suppose. We're leaving for the morgue in half an hour."

John took a sip of the coffee, and it was then that he noticed Sherlock's appearance for the first time. His skin was even paler than usual, and there was something in his breathing which seemed both shallow and wheezy. His clothes were still visibly damp from the previous night, and even at a distance, John could feel the heat radiate off him. John reached over, pressing a hand to Sherlock's clammy forehead for a split second before Sherlock hissed and moved away.

"What are you doing?"

"You have a fever." Even in the brief moment of contact, John still registered the alarming heat of Sherlock's skin, and the misty eyes and damp clothes were not helping much.

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped, turning back to his blog.

"You look terrible."

"That's a bit below you, John..."

"You slept in your wet clothes..."

"I was thinking about important things. I didn't have time to bother with frivolities."

"You _have_ a fever."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but instead let out a series of nasty sounding coughs. John waited patiently for them to subside, and after a few minutes of deep, bone rattling coughing, Sherlock managed to look up eye him beadily, as if daring John to say something about it.

"Im _not_ sick." Sherlock said loudly, retorting to the unsaid words which hovered in the air.

"Of course not." John pulled a thermometer from the table and put it in front of Sherlock's mouth. "Open up."

"I. don't. get. sick." There was an almost desperate quality in Sherlock's voice, and he leaned back into the sofa, coughing violently. He sighed deeply, rubbing his temples with his fingers before allowing his head to collapse onto the backing.

"You're sick." This time the words held a little more tenderness, and John gently nudged the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth. He paused, taking in the damp tendrils of dark hair, the fever-glazed eyes. He gingerly moved the sweaty curls off Sherlock's forehead, allowing his thumb to graze the blazing skin underneath. Sherlock slapped his hand away forcefully just as the thermometer beeped.

"This is ridiculous. I'm fine. I'm working. I'm leaving." Sherlock stood up, taking a half step into John and stifling another bout of coughing.

"A _102_ degree fever does not make you 'okay'."

His eyes narrowed in irritation. "I don't remember asking for your opinion."

"I'm a doctor."

"Fabulous observation."

"I'm _your _doctor.."

"Correction: my assistant, who happens to _be_ a doctor.."

"You're sick."

"I'm going out."

"You have a cough that sounds like it might crack one of your ribs at any given moment.."

"Fine. Alright. I have a slight cough. I'm not sick."

"It's more than the cough..."

"People go out with coughs all the time. If normal people can manage I have no doubt I can..."

"What part of a 102 degree fever are you not understanding?"

"I don't have time for this nonsense."

"It's snowing."

"Is there a point to this endless stream of excuses?"

"SHERLOCK." John was impressed with himself when Sherlock actually paused and looked at him, albeit full of impatient conceit.

"Let me lay this out for you. Either you can be cooperative, take some antibiotics, work on your blog or whatever you want to do HERE AT THE FLAT... REST... and you can be back to normal in a day or two. Or you can ignore me, and wind up stuck here for a good week with pneumonia. Your pick."

He paused for a moment, a look of overly-exaggerated contemplation painted across his face. "I pick... going out and seeing what Lestrade has planned for me today." Sherlock smirked at John's deflated expression, jumping over the coffee table to avoid John, and slammed the bedroom door. John groaned, the angry bitterness of the previous night hitting him like a truck. He was finished. Wordlessly, he stood and tossed his almost full mug into the sink. He paused in the kitchen, weighing his options. Before he could form a solid sense of his bearings, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, neatly dressed in a fresh shirt and blazer, combing a few fingers through his now tidy curls. He strode to the coat-rack, pulling on the worn greatcoat and scarf.

"I'm going to look at a body. There's a cab waiting outside." And with that, Sherlock slipped down the stairs, door crashing shut behind him. John stood in the kitchen, frozen.

"Fine." He said out loud. "I'm **not** following him." The kitchen's silence mocked him. _really? _it said. _you're really just going to let him go out there on his own, and-_

"Goddamn it!" John shouted at the silent flat, grabbing his coat and running down the stairs in hot pursuit. He found Sherlock standing on the curb, looking dejected.

"We lost the taxi." He sighed, a stream of steam billowing from his mouth. "Fancy a walk?" Sherlock turned, heading down the street, and John had no choice but to run behind him: a little boy tagging along after his hero.

*John just can't stay away from that good-looking rebel, can he? I know the feeling well. Angst and fluff yet to come! Should be up by the end of the day! Reviews very much apprecaiated!


	3. Chapter 3

Hope this chapter begins to be a bit of a payoff... finally some Johnlock angsty-ness!

"So... what are we looking at exactly?"

"Not sure yet."

John shifted from one foot to the other, shivering slightly in the sub-arctic temperatures of the morgue.

"And... " He prodded, waiting for Sherlock to say something. "...What do we know about her?"

"You mean what do **I **know about her?"

"Yes. Whatever. What do **you **know about her?"

Sherlock paused, blinking a few times and then closing his eyes in forced concentration.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared blankly at the corpse, tilting his head to the side and shaking it slightly.

"Married," He began crisply "Less than five years- notice the ring appears very new, no signs of wear. Husband's probably..." He paused, rubbing his temples. "... someone... someone with money... she obviously doesn't earn very much because..." Sherlock trailed off.

"Sherlock?"

"She obviously doesn't earn very much because you can tell nothing except her jewelry is high quality and her clothes are all knock offs." The stream of consciousness was sharp and sudden, but seemed to drain most of the energy out of its speaker. Sherlock loosened his scarf irritably, brushing a hand along his hairline and shivering. He was visibly feverish. He began to pace slowly, footsteps unsteady.

"It was someone she knew!" Fever-bright eyes snapped open as Sherlock continued to pace around the gurney. "It was someone she knew because if it was a stranger they would have taken her ring!" His face was aglow with fever, and John was beginning to feel those awful nagging senses of guilt and pity return in abundance.

"Sherlock.." He tried to be gentle "That really makes no sense..."

"Yes it's so obvious! If she-" Sherlock stumbled, knocking a tray of instruments off a table in the process. The coughing returned, causing him to grab the gurney as it tore through him, taking him to his knees. John reached out, but was met with a shove to the knees.

"I'm *COUGH* fine, John," The words were harsh and sharp, lashing out and stinging far harder than initially intended. Sherlock took a rattling breath, unconsciously cradling his aching head in a gloved hand. "Just give me a moment to..." The sentance was cut off by more coughs, these far deeper and more bronchial than the previous, and resulting in an audible groan.

"That's it." John leaned down, heaving Sherlock onto shaking legs. "We're going home. Now." Even with his waning strength, Sherlock still managed to push John away with surprising force, clutching to the gurney for dear life.

"It's her _ring _John... that's how we're going to find him... we've got to... we must..." Each word slurred more so than the last, and John could see the cloudy eyes, the lethargic speech.

"Come on." Using all the strength he possessed, John pushed Sherlock onto his feet, allowing the slender frame to drape along his own sturdy shoulders, the awkward heap of bodies making their way to the sleeting outdoors. Somehow they managed to pile into a cab, and John practically shouted at the driver to take them home. Sherlock's eyes blearily darted around, the dark pupils heavily dilated against their almost translucently blue irises. John could do nothing but sit and murmur words which even he was unsure of their meaning. It didn't even matter. They just needed to get home.

What Sherlock really needed was hospital, but even in his current state John knew that he would still rally enough to cause a huge fuss and be blatantly uncooperative: two things which would simply lead to lost time and a worsening of his condition. No, going home was best.

The driver helped John get the delirious Sherlock upstairs and onto the sofa, before departing into the practically blizzard-level conditions outside. Sherlock lay on his back, shivering and coughing with such force that John felt his own chest ache as he watched. Working quickly, so as to not think about it too much, he stripped Sherlock to his boxers, tossing the soaking wet clothes to the floor. He found a few blankets from the closet, wrapping the shivering, pale, burning, body before him as tightly as he could. John sat next to Sherlock for a moment, feeling his lymph nodes, listening to the escalating rattle inside his lungs.

He was so skinny. It wasn't as though John was unaware of Sherlock's slim build, but seeing him unclothed, sweating and burning bright with fever, unreachable- made him seem very small. His wrists fit easily between John's thumb and pinky. John ran his hand along the pale jaw, his eyes following along the sunken features. His cheek-bones were almost angular, and the starkly purple circles beneath his eyes were almost like bruises. John stood, running up the stairs for more supplies, Sherlock's lifeless face burning bright beneath his eyelids with each step.

Tsk tsk... poor John. Hopefully these two can pull through so some of those bitter words from earlier can be washed away? Next chapter will be up in 24 hours or less! Please review, like, share as you will. Always love feedback! (I haven't written any more yet, so if you have any suggestions for what should happen next feel free to comment)


	4. Chapter 4

*Okay screw what I said earlier. I wanted to turn on the fluff-meter, so I did. Don't like don't read. Also, WARNING: MINOR SPOILERS FOR BELGRAVIA. Don't say I didn't warn you!

John had dealt with more than his share of sick people in his life. Not simply sick people, but those who were literally on their death bed and were depending on him with their very lives. He had fixed broken ribs, shattered pelvises, and carried a man more than twice his size all the way to safety. He had seen blood, organs, decaying bodies crawling with maggots and reeking of death and despair and not turned away. Yet as he sat in the humid flat, a wet rag clutched in one hand as he silently observed Sherlock's ragged breathing, John could not help but feel that nothing on earth, nothing in the endless splay of universe, could possibly make him feel worse than he did right now.

Sherlock's fever had climbed through the roof and beyond, and he could not manage more than a few coherent words at a time. He had stopped sweating, which scared John even more, because it meant his body was not unable to rid itself of the toxins inside. His ghostly pale face was papery and sunken, and yet John found himself staring at it endlessly, transfixed. Every second make his body throb with guilt. He ignored it. He found solace in the pain. It was constant. It had an obvious cause. And it could be fixed. Not all things could be fixed. John stared at that face unflinchingly, allowing every detail to stab him a thousand times over and back. The shape of the jaw. The exact shade of the thin lips. Over and over he soaked in that face, and after nearly six hours he still did not feel full. No amount of staring could fix the hole in his chest or take away the guilt. The shame. How could he not have noticed sooner? At first he had allowed himself some slack. He'd done everything he could. He'd said everything he was supposed to say- Sherlock just didn't listen. That answer had given him a few hours of comfort, that is until he went up to Sherlock's room in search of clothes, and had discovered a carefully concealed drawer of cough suppressants. An alarmingly large supply. Actually it was not so much the quantity which caused John to mentally shame himself over the following hours, but rather the amount which had been consumed. John counted six empty bottles and three full ones, but was suspicious that there may have been more, and after a bit of digging for receipts he found that some of the bottles had been purchased over ten days ago. Ten days. That was ten days of silent suffering on Sherlock's end that had gone completely unnoticed by John. The thought alone made his stomach churn.

Finally he came to the depressing conclusion that there was nothing else he could do. IV drip, cooling packs, minimal clothing intended to allow fever reduction. Out of concern for Sherlock's cough he had even turned on the shower and allowed the steam to fill the flat, serving as a massive blanket of heat over its inhabitants. The steam seemed to be at least relatively effective, and the intensity of the coughs seemed to have been minimized. John paced endlessly. Back and forth. Up and down. As if hoping, _praying _that some miraculous cure would materialize before him and tear away the weight on his heart. Finally he rallied, reminding himself that patients need time. Rest. John forced himself into the armchair beside Sherlock with a book. He had been opened to the same page for two hours. He had forgotten what the book was, and when looking at the cover realized it was a dictionary. He did not close it.

The only sound punctuating the thick air was the frequent hoards of hair-raising coughs, which would go on for minutes at a time, their creator tossing in a deliriously fitful slumber. John eventually collapsed into sleep as well, his exhausted mind welcoming the release.

He awoke at 4:00am to Sherlock's screams.

Book flying, he sat up in the chair, mind snapping to the task at hand.

"It's okay... it's okay Sherlock you're okay you're here... we're home.. I'm here.." The last two words seemed stupid as soon as they hit John's tongue, but Sherlock seemed in no position to judge.

"No...No! Stop! Stop! Don't... don't touch me.." Sherlock thrashed and moaned, his frail body shaking with suppressed coughs.

"I'm not going to hurt you.."

"DON'T TOUCH ME. DON'T EVEN LOOK AT ME."

If John had thought his world could not get any worse a few hours ago, it was nothing compared to how he felt now.

"I..."

"GET AWAY FROM ME! YOU'RE A LYING, DECEITFUL, IGNORANT CHEAT."

John felt the world stop. His world had stopped. Words failed him, and he stood helplessly broken, wanting nothing more than to fix the mess before his eyes.

"Please let me in.. just let me help you..."

"No."

The single word echoed over and over in John's head. _No. No no no no no no no no no. _

"Sherlock..." John clung to the word like a life boat. He was holding on for dear life. For both their lives. He imagined himself in the ocean for a split second, Sherlock standing on shore watching him drown. _Please, _he would say, _please... _

_no. _was the answer, and John had never felt so helpless.

"Please, Sherlock..."

"Don't... don't..." Sherlock moaned "I don't want you... I want John..."

John felt the ground begin to move again.

"What?"

"I want John... I don't want you... never wanted you.. no... Irene NO.."

John's world was no longer shattered.

"It's okay Sherlock. Irene's gone. She's gone." John sighed in relief, running the cool wet cloth in his hand along Sherlock's fevered brow.

"She's gone. I'm here."

Sherlock breathed heavily, and John saw the first beads of sweat begin to form. Like golden rain, each drop soothing the burning body beneath, and John felt the knot in him begin to loosen.

"It's okay. I'm here." He tried the words once more. "I'm here."

No words had ever tasted so sweet.

*Thank god the suffering is over... right? Maybe not. John and Sherlock are not through the tunnel yet- more angst yet to come. Sorry if its a little short, but I had to run out the door and wanted to post one more chapter


	5. Chapter 5

*Okay. So this was supposed to be really dark and full of unresolved conflict between our detectives, but it ended up being rather fluffy in my opinion... by this point though, I've read the whole thing so many times I hardly even know **what** to think any more, so take it as you will. Also, the level of JohnLock-ness, kinda hit the roof in this chapter. So be warned. Once again, minor spoilers (if you can call them "spoilers", just plot references, really,) to Scandal in Belgravia- I do so love that episode! Anyway: read, review, enjoy, share with your friends, your grandma, your GBF... whatever.

The soft clearing of a throat awoke John from his uncomfortable position in the armchair. Glancing at the clock he realized he had been asleep for almost two hours.

Sherlock's steely eyes looked back into his own through the dim light, a pale arm reaching for the glass of water on the table. John leaned over and handed it to him, watching as Sherlock greedily gulped down the lukewarm liquid in one swig. He looked better than he had a few hours ago: fever had lowered, breathing had improved. He had changed into pajama bottoms and his blue robe, thus erasing some vulnerability from the facade.

"How do you feel?" The question seemed ridiculously silly, trivial. But John wanted the reassurance that Sherlock was alright, and did not care if he was mocked for asking such an obvious question.

Sherlock hesitated, as though torn between the truth and a lie, yet unsure which was which and how much he wanted to reveal to John. For a moment his gaze softened; as though he wanted to say something, but could not find the right words to do so. It lasted only a moment, however, and by the time he actually spoke, John wondered if it had ever been there at all.

"Fine." He said, voice practically oozing its normal lazy, uninterested tone despite the harshness retained from the congestion, "I feel fine." Those blue eyes looked up with a mildly interested innocence, staring down John as though in competition. _I dare you to beat me _they said: _Let's see you try. _

John returned Sherlock's stare with soft disbelief, as though coaxing a small child to tell the truth about who had tracked mud into the kitchen.

"Look," He began fairly, "I..."

"I said I'm fine." The words were louder, more forceful. Stabbing John's gentle ones and shoving them away to make room for themselves "I'm fine."

"DON'T say you're fine" John snapped. He looked back on the sick, albeit irritable, detective before him and toned it down a notch, empathy seeping out from the rough cracks in his words. "Please.. just.. tell me the truth. I won't make you go to the hospital if you don't want to go, I.."

Sherlock did not stray from his piercing gaze, eyes remaining hard as marble. When he spoke again, each word was cold and emotionless.

"I said I'm fine, John." The cough escaped anyway, and Sherlock covered his mouth his with a hand, holding his posture with every fiber of strength to remain upright. When it finally stopped Sherlock pulled his hand away, clutching it into a first on his lap.

"I managed without you for a long time."

If his first words had been chilly, these were downright freezing, and the entire room seemed to drop about ten degrees.

John stiffened, and the room was suddenly very quiet. "You know what..?" He said after a moment, "Molly was right. You really say the most awful things."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to bristle, but rather than returning the argument with a clever comeback he broke off into another coughing fit, the fisted hand in his lap coming up to his mouth once more.

John turned away, not wanting to feel any worse than he already did. He was torn halfway between more guilt and anger when he saw Sherlock's hand as it made a hasty path back to his lap. John reached out, grabbing it and turning it over to the palm side. The creamy flesh was spotted with blood, each drop a glistening jewel of dark crimson dripping down Sherlock's arm, a few snaking their way onto the sofa cushions.

"DON'T." Sherlock skittered to the other side of the sofa, hiding the bloody palm against his thigh. "It's fine. It just happens sometimes."

"Good god, Sherlock.. how long has this been going on?" John reached out-

Sherlock snatched his hand away. "I said I'm fine, John. I can take care of myself. I don't need you."

John recoiled, and suddenly the days and weeks of anger and lack of appreciation all fired within him, boiling over before he could do anything else.

"Fine. By now John was breathing rather fast, malice audible in every word. "You don't need me? Fine. Go and starve yourself to death: I don't care. Because you know what? I'm sick of being your puppet, Sherlock. I'm supposed to be your **friend**. But obviously you don't think of me as such." A wry laugh escaped his lips, sounding more like a bark. "And frankly, I guess I'm the one who should be sorry. Clearly this is all _my_ fault, because I've been kidding myself into thinking that the all mighty _Sherlock Holmes _was capable of caring about anything but himself." John pulled a few bottles of pills and a prescription out of his pocket, slamming them onto the table with such force that the glass shattered on the floor. "Here." He shoved the items toward Sherlock's rather shocked persona. "TAKE THEM. You should get that cough checked out tomorrow morning," He turned, yanking his coat off the back of the chair and heading for the door. "You don't want to be running after criminals with tuberculosis." He called over his shoulder, fingers curling venomously against the doorknob. "Well, **you **might.." He paused just before reaching the door. "After all, you wouldn't want to be **boring**." John stormed out of the flat, not even bothering to slam the door behind him.

He was almost on the stairs, with little intention of ever entering that flat again, when Sherlock's voice reached his ears.

"I'm sorry."

The words were faint, and echoed eerily through the tiny stairwell. John stopped, taking a few steps back up the stairs, unsure if he had heard correctly. He peered back into the flat cautiously.

"John.. I.. I'm sorry." He would never forget the look of Sherlock's face as he spoke those three little words, nor the sincerity of his voice which John would never hear again. Sherlock swallowed, eyes darting to the ground before meeting John's.

"I apologize for my rude behavior." His words were a little tight, rusty almost- like it was a phrase he was not accustomed to using on actual people, yet it was very sincere, despite its awkward delivery. "Please don't... Don't leave..." Sherlock's voice ached a little on _leave, _and he spoke his next few sentences very carefully. "I know I said I didn't need you, John. And that's not true." The sapphire eyes pleaded with each word, their owner stumbling for the first time in his life over what to say. "I..I may have managed.. for a while on my own, but...I do need you.." The sapphires were practically burning a hole through John with their heat, and both men suddenly felt the need to look away.

John managed to look up, and the question he had wanted to ask for days finally bubbled to the surface. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and suddenly he looked rather anxious. "Tell you what?"

"That you've been ill. All this time. Why didn't you say anything?"

Sherlock shrugged, eyes now very interested in something under the coffee table.

John felt his patience begin to wane again. "Please, Sherlock I'm just asking. I mean I appreciate the apology, but I want to know why-"

"Because I didn't want to disappoint you." It was not a snap, but the words were spastic, as though Sherlock had been holding them very tightly but had not intended to let them slip loose from his grasp.

"You didn't want to _disappoint_ me?"

Sherlock was now very absorbed with his fingernails. "I don't like disappointing you."

John was trying to process the statement, without much success. "But..." His mind fumbled on the idea, trying to grasp the concept of Sherlock caring about something as boring and human as _disappointment. _"You don't care about disappointing _anyone_. You couldn't care less about your brother, or Lestrade, or-"

"I don't mind disappointing people who I never cared about to begin with." Sherlock snapped. "I just don't like failing _you_." His eyes darted from the floor back to John and then back to the floor. "I don't like failing anyone, really, but... it matters a lot less when they mean nothing to you." He sniffed. "I suppose that's why I don't like caring about people." The ice had begun to melt around the room, and the frozen words from before were running down the walls; a sea of angry words and broken promises cascading out the open door and forgotten.

"I know the feeling," Said John, dropping his coat on the floor and sitting onto the sofa next to Sherlock, gingerly taking the blood-spattered palm into his own. "I don't like caring about people either."

*Thoughts? God I never realized how long I can sit and write and be completely oblivious to the world around me.. I've been sitting in Starbucks for almost 3 hours. Anyway, please share any feedback- always appreciated. I'm not sure if this is the end, or if I need one more chapter...? I may just call it good and start something else. So if this is the end: hope you liked it (hopefully, cause you bothered to read it all...) if not- stay tuned!


	6. Chapter 6

*Well after some very nice reviews and the realization that my life is really quite boring without Sherlock, I decided to wrap this baby up with one last chapter. VERY fluffy. Complete Johnlock by the end. Not what I'd initially had in mind, but I still like it for selfish reasons. Hope it meets everyone's expectations! Feedback appreciated, Probably minor plot spoilers, I own nothing, you all know the drill...

A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the two men sat comfortably in its warmth, John relaxed into the folds of his chair (it practically fit him like a glove by this point: four days of sitting and playing maid to Sherlock, and he felt as though he had seen nothing but this tiny room in years), and Sherlock once again glued to the laptop, fingers clicking across its keys. The blood scare had indeed ended up being no more than a scare, and John was relieved to find that it was not tuberculosis or pneumonia, but just a bad cough with minor infection and little or no long-term effects. By this point it had died down to something of a wet cold, and although there were now heaps of used tissues and empty tea cups, John complained only in jest, and was unbothered by the constant sniffling from the sofa and demands for various things from the grocery store.

Sherlock looked up from the screen to find John brandishing a glass of water and some cold medicine. He flashed a look of deep disgust, taking the water but allowing the purple liquid to stay in its container.

"Must you torture me?"

John rolled his eyes: they had been through this twice in the last six hours alone. "Could be worse. Think of it as an experiment in endurance."

Sherlock scowled, but took the bottle- measuring out the proper dosage and swallowing in revulsion. John grinned, taking the bottle back to the kitchen. The distinct buzz of a phone resounded through the flat, and Sherlock grabbed it as though his life depended on it.

**New case. Details in the e-mail I sent you. Don't do anything stupid- if you die we will have to shut down the entire police force. ** **-Lestrade**

Sherlock made some sort of impatient sound which came out more as a cough, and then managed to sneeze a few times into his arm before groaning.

"John..." He whined, "I can't do this anymore."

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured dramatically around the flat. "This whole... being ill.. business. I'm not cut out for it. It's unnatural."

John shook his head as he rummaged through the fridge, returning with a foil covered bowl of leftover soup from Mrs. Hudson. "It's not forever. You'll be fine in a few days, and by next week-"

"Next week!" The look on Sherlock's face clearly said that he'd rather of died while hacking up his own lungs than be stuck on the sofa for another second, but was too tired and drugged to do much about it except sneeze again and look irritable. If nothing else, the good thing about having Sherlock stuck in the flat at this point was that he was still recovering from being completely bed-ridden, and although the scarring image of his fevered body brought no positive connotations to heart, John was relieved that he had not yet recovered to the point of being able to resist the coddling with much gusto. An occasional snarky comment or two, a weak attempt at refusal to take medication- had all proven fruitless, and he seemed to have accepted his temporary fate with, if not enthusiasm, at least tolerance.

Sherlock turned back to the laptop and began to scan through Lestrade's e-mail with a most aggressive hunger, and John could see the mechanics of the keen mind begin to work again.

"Hmm..." Sherlock scrolled down quickly, obviously enjoying this new material in a way John could only begin to understand. "The sister did it" he finally said in his usual bored voice, closing the laptop. He sighed contentedly and stretched out along the sofa. "Next please." He looked at John expectantly, who was privately thinking it was a bit sad that one man recovering from a fever which could have put him in the ground had solved a case based off of little more than two photos and a twelve paragraph e-mail, which would have taken god-knows how many weeks in the hands of the police alone. Then again, that was Sherlock for you.

"Well good job. Not bad for someone who spent two days delirious with fever." Sherlock shot John another irritated look, as though annoyed that John had mentioned some irrelevant personal matter. John handed him the bowl of soup, and Sherlock actually accepted, sniffing it slightly before taking a small bite.

"What am I supposed to do now?" He said, looking back to the closed laptop forlornly. "I can feel my brain rotting as we speak."

"Rest." John said firmly. "Take it easy."

"'Easy' is not in my vocabulary."

John chuckled at his innuendo, and Sherlock huffed.

"Grow up John."

They looked at each other, and after a moment of stare-down they both cracked up, an actual smile breaking across Sherlock's face for the first time in far too long. John liked seeing him smile. It was sort of beautiful and rare and unexpected all at once, and he wished it could happen more than a few times a year. They both settled back into their previous positions in the living room, and John had nearly forgotten there was anyone else in the room when Sherlock broke the comfortable silence.

"I meant what I said."

"Sorry?" John looked up from his book.

"About Irene." It was the first time that name had been spoken in months, and John was knocked rather off guard by this spontaneous statement. He had not imagined that Sherlock was even close to lucidity when he murmured the comment about wanting Irene to leave him alone. That he only wanted John. "I know you think I loved her." He scoffed. "Or something stupid like that, I don't know. You really shouldn't have been so jealous though," He added, those sapphires flashing most delicately once again in John's direction "It didn't help too much with our 'public image'."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John said, "I'm not-"

"I already know, John. You don't have to hide it."

John's heart was hammering so loudly he could practically feel it shaking the floor. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock set down his phone, eyes locking with John's in a way that was far more human than usual, and sent an electric field through the living room which probably could have powered the entire city. "You love me." It was less arrogant that most of Sherlock's comments, which was surprising, seeing how telling someone _they_ love _you_ is not exactly a selfless act. Sherlock cocked his head, eyes not leaving John's as he continued. "You have for a long time." His tone was neither mocking nor irritated, simply matter-o-fact. He continued on with the serious expression John had grown so accustomed to, but was half-wishing he could have thrown a fit of rage instead.

John felt his mouth open and then shut, words seeming beyond functioning capacity at this point. "How..."

"Come on John, it's really quite obvious."

John could feel his stomach shoot through the floor, the ringing in his ears growing more loud by the minute. This was not how he had planned on the evening playing out. This wasn't something to be talked about, and it wasn't for Sherlock to go and throw onto the floor for the world to see. It was a mutually accepted fact, but he had been under the impression that this particular piece of evidence would never see the light of day. It wasn't supposed to be discussed. It wasn't supposed to be acknowledged. And it most certainly was not something for Sherlock to casually throw into an afternoon conversation. Sherlock was still eying him, with something teetering on tenderness. John only saw pity. And if there was one thing John hated, it was being pitied.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head as though they were simply discussing the weather forecast, and Sherlock had mistaken the temperature for the day. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair so that his arms were resting on his thighs, his face only about a foot away from John's chair. "So you don't love me?"

"Well, I...I.. I mean, not like LOVE, as in... well LOVE, but... I.."

Sherlock stood, his long frame daunting as he towered over John, bending down so they were at eye level, faces very close. He could count every freckle, every hair, every fleck of gold in the depths of those blue eyes. "Say it then." John could taste the fainting hint of smoke on his breath, although he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock would have had the opportunity to smoke. "Say 'I don't love you.'" The blue was mesmerizing. The perfect lips, the flawless skin. John swallowed, trying to clear his head. _Just say it, dammit _he though. _Just say it. It's just four words. Just say it and this can all be gone. Never mentioned again. _But maybe he didn't want it to be forgotten and shoved back into the corner. Did he really love Sherlock? I mean he _cared, _certainly, cared about him in a way that he could not even describe, in a way he had never really cared about anyone else before. But was that love? He had thought to have loved plenty of women in his lifetime, and this.. THIS wasn't love. It couldn't be. It simply couldn-

A pair of honey soft lips met his own, and John felt his breath pulled away in shock by the kiss. Their kiss. It wasn't exactly smooth, but their lips met at just the right places, both individuals matching their breath to meet the others. After a moment Sherlock pulled away rather suddenly, a look of sheer amusement splayed across his pale face. He licked his lips and ran a hand across his face, as though reassuring himself it was still there. John simply let his mouth blubber in shock, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to say. He opened his lips to speak, although still uncertain of what would come out once he did.

"Shut up John." The words were so normal, so _Sherlock, _that John momentarily found his voice and snapped back to real life.

"I haven't... exactly said.. anything yet.."

Sherlock met his gaze once more, and this time neither looked away. "You were going to say you were sorry. Don't be." He leaned back for more, and this time they met hungrily, feral, the breaths becoming faster, more ravenous with each bite. They fell into the chair, Sherlock's silken robe billowing around them like an erotic tent, his eyes closed as the kissed deepened, richer, until.. John pulled gently away, his hand coming up to cover Sherlock's mouth. A deep flush crept over his neck, the bullet-proof wall which was constantly on guard piling back up as quickly as John had knocked it down. Sherlock pulled away, embarrassment exploding through his every cell, until John pulled him back, a mischievous look on his face.

"You need to go back to bed."

Sherlock blinked a few times, until the words meaning fully hit him.

"Perhaps you should come with me?"

The two practically ran to the bedroom, and the crackling of the fire was nothing compared to the fireworks which would ensue far into the night.

When Monday rolled around and John called Lestrade to inform him that "Sherlock was taking a few extra days to recover, and needed some more time off", he just laughed quietly to himself, secretly glad that his two best detectives had finally solved their most important case.

THE END.

Hope the end was not too horribly sappy. Thanks for reading and/or reviewing!

I have four more stories very closely on deck, so I should have more stuff up in the next couple days. This was my first Sherlock fic, so I hope it turned out satisfactorily.


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